


Quentin (EN)

by MstD



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24365857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MstD/pseuds/MstD
Summary: “Peter had failed, he’d let himself be charmed by the blue of his eyes, he had tasted “yellow paint” in the man’s lips, and just like Van Gogh he became addicted.”An AU where Peter is an Artist and Quentin is his “Muse”.
Relationships: Quentin Beck & Peter Parker, Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	Quentin (EN)

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in Italy, I was inspired since that’s where they met in FFH. If this reminds you a little of Call Me By Your Name, that’s because… MAAAAN FFH IS MARVEL’S CMBYN.  
> I wanted to try writing something filthy because I’ve never done it before, and I made it art so I didn’t feel too guilty.
> 
> Thanks to the good feedback I've gotten in this story, and after an AO3 user's request, I come with an English translation for this fic.
> 
> Credits:  
> History by Mst'Dragon  
> Beta reader: Kotecontreux (@marajoscontreux)  
> English translation: Dany Berry
> 
> For a better experience read on: https://my.w.tt/gdGfIFnzL6

The man rested on the couch, wearing nothing, his gaze lost in the wall. He was not to move until the Peter gave him permission. He could see the younger man from the corner of his eye, hidden behind the easel. Focused on his body, tracing lines with charcoal over the white canvas in front of him.

Quentin had rejected him more than once, because he knew what he was getting into, but the young man kept on insisting. He wanted to use him as a nude model for his next painting. The boy was charmed by the older man’s beauty and he had a need to embody him in one of his works, to show off his handsome partner. They hadn’t been dating for long, a little less than five months.

They’d met inside a coffee shop in the small Italian town. Peter worked there with his aunt, who covered a whole shift while Peter only had the weekends. It was a nice way to distract himself, an alternative to staying home all day.

He enjoyed talking with tourists, they always had new stories that inspired him to create new things. He liked science, too, but he had left it behind for a while to expand his abilities beyond it. That’s how he developed his skill in the arts, he learned how to paint and capture the beauty of things.

On a Sunday morning, a lone stranger arrived at the shop. Possibly a foreigner, there was no other explanation for such delicate features in that place. The man sat in a table for one close to the window. He was wearing black, a stark contrast against the colors of the shop. He positioned his arms over the white tablecloth on top of the perfectly placed table over the screeching brown planks of the floor, which in turn matched the stone gray walls, covered in dark shelves packed with old bottles and tableware.

Peter saw him behind the counter and rushed to serve him, taking in his hands the pencil, note, and the day’s menu.

He approached him, moving the roses sitting on the table’s small flower vase, calling for the older man’s attention. The man shifted his gaze from the window and met the young man’s eyes.

“Hello,” he greeted the stranger, hoping he would understand his Italian accent.

“Hi,” said the older man, leaning with his elbows against the table and his head on one hand. He understood perfectly, and the boy smiled, completely charmed.

Peter was about to give him the menu he was holding, but the man rushed to say, “I just want a classic Italian breakfast.”

“You know what comes with it, right?” The young man asked.

“Not at all,” he said smiling. “I like surprises.”

“Are you allergic to anything in particular?” The young man asked. “I wouldn’t want to surprise you with a possible premature death.”

The man laughed and shook his head. Peter nodded and went back in the counter’s direction.

The typical Italian breakfast consisted of coffee, pastries, and tramezzino, a sandwich made with crustless bread. The coffee could be americano or cappuccino; from what he saw, the older man’s favorite would be a stronger coffee, the classic espresso. He got a freshly baked hazelnut filled croissant along with a vegetarian sandwich for something fresh. He put everything in a plate and took it to the table. He was about to leave, but the man stopped him, he wanted to chat for a while. Peter saw how empty the place was and nodded, dragged a chair nearby and sat in front of him.

“Is there any place you think I should visit?” The older man said.

“Hm… you have a lot of options,” the young man commented, looking through the window.

“I like green landscapes,” the man said as he drank his coffee.

“There’s a gazebo garden not far from here,” the boy said. “It’s one of my favorite places, I like to paint there,” he added.

“You’re an artist.”

“I’m not Picasso, but I try,” the boy said laughing, “I’m just exploring. What do you do?” He asked interested.

“I’m just a boring engineer,” he answered.

Peter’s eyes lit up. The man was both handsome and smart. “In what, specifically…?” He asked.

“I’m developing holographic technology.”

Peter was going to answer, but they were interrupted by May, who needed her nephew’s help. He said good bye for now, promising to finish their conversation next time they saw each other. He spent the time he had left looking at the man from over the counter in a dumb smile, drawing his silhouette on his sketchbook without even hiding it. The man walked to the cashier to pay the bill and get a chance to say goodbye to the younger one, and he winked. He had discovered him.

Peter hoped they would meet again, and fortunately it happened. From then on they kept finding each other in different places. Every time Peter went out in search of inspiration, be it painting landscapes or structures in his sketchbook, the man appeared in his line of sight, completing the scene. On top of that, he kept coming to the coffee shop every Sunday.

They always talked after the young man finished his paintings or his shifts at the shop. Peter discovered the man lived around the same neighbourhood, he had moved in recently. With that information, the young man decided to leave his studio more often to meet him again.

Peter followed him for months, until he fell on his trap, the man surrendered to the boy’s charms, he couldn’t deny his chemistry and after setting a series of rules, he agreed to go out with him.

_ No tempting him, that was the first rule. _ But there it was the young man tempting him.

It took him around twenty-five minutes to make the sketch, using his fingers to shade or erase his mistakes.

Once he was satisfied with the result, he compared the drawing with the real deal. It didn’t do him justice, but it wasn’t bad either. It wouldn’t be like “The Kiss” by Gustav Klimt, but people would love it.

He sighed, then from the table next to him took the oil tubes and squeezed them to release their contents over the wood mixer. He began with the lighter colors, the base of what would be his skin: red, white, and a hint of yellow; for the shadows he’d use the same hue with a bit of black.

For the hair, a raw brown, over which he would paint yellow lines to make highlights. And for the eyes he took the royal blue tube with a bit of white, and after mixing for a minute with the spatula he breathed out in frustration. It didn’t matter how many times he mixed blue with white, he couldn’t match the color he had in front of him.

Peter breathed in the smell of the place, filling his nose with linseed oil, he used it all the time, it was essential for working with oils. He got up from the stool frustrated, drank from the sweet wine he had in the glass that rested next to his pencil cases, and walked towards him with the palette in his hand and the brush between his fingers. He stood in front of him. Beck on his part didn’t even flinch for a moment, not even when their faces were merely millimeters apart.

He sat next to him to keep mixing colors, from blue to white, and from skyblue to a little gray, never pulling his gaze away, Peter kept on mixing until he reached what he believed was the one. Then, the sampled some with his brush and compared it to his eyes. It still needed some work. He loved Quentin’s eyes, but hated how they were always changing colors, depending on the light, or what he was wearing, and the faint light inside the studio didn’t help much, it sneaked between the curtains covering the windows, making the room both vivid and opaque at the same time.

He breathed in and out, tired, and got even closer, to the point where their foreheads were touching, and he kept looking at him for a whole minute without talking. Mixing the skyblue and hazelnut of their eyes.

The older man clerared his throat and the young man was brought back from his reverie.

“I’m sorry, I’m invading your space,” he said, embarrassed, his face covered in a strong carmine.

“How long are you planning to take? I fear May will come and see us like this.

“We aren’t doing anything,” the young man replied, looking at the palette.

“No, but you’ve got me naked and with a possible cramp in my arm,” he said trying to move, and Peter stopped him bluntly putting a hand over his chest.

“Don’t move, I’m about to finish.”

The man on the couch laughed, and leaving his pose he took the young man’s hands on his own, they were thinner than his, and they were black from the charcoal, but Quentin didn’t mind. He interlaced their hands and brought them closer.

The boy was confused, and the man in front of him was about to lose his composure. He’d spent days conflicted about the rules he himself had set.

The model leaned forward without turning his gaze away, passed his free hand through the artist’s curly hair, feeling every strand tangle between his fingers and, softly, held his chin to guide his lips. He wanted to taste the fermented grape right from his mouth.

The painter’s lips were cold, their taste sweet. He answered slowly to his movement, but bit by bit he got warmer. The day he tasted “yellow paint” in the older man’s lips he became addicted, just like Van Gogh. Peter wanted him inside to finally feel happy. He didn’t let go for even a moment, since unlike paint, Quentin wasn’t toxic or poisonous.

Peter let go of his hand to change positions until he was on top of him, and let the palette on his other hand fall, staining the wooden floor with the pigments. He was eager to break the second rule Beck had given him:

_ Get away when he felt the need to desecrate his virginal body _ .

Even though Peter was younger than him, he wasn’t far from turning of age. They agreed on crossing the line then, but even with only days left for that Quentin couldn’t keep holding back anymore. Peter felt the older man’s bulge against his ass like so many times before.

It wasn’t the first time they touched each other, it wasn’t the first time they found themselves in this situation, and it wasn’t the first time Peter tried to push him to break his own rules.

With the charcoal in his hands, he began to use Quentin’s body like a canvas and traced lines with his fingers over the shapes in his neck, he shaded his collarbone and part of his muscles, making it so the friction of his fingers would look more vivid in his new canvas. He’d never touched such a soft material as the silky skin that rested on the couch at his mercy.

The boy had never done it before, but he was eager to do it with the work of art beneath him. Peter moved his hands over his neck, smearing paint over the beige couch, and devoured his lips again, desperate for a deeper connection as he moved his hips, searching for a reaction from him.

Sighs left through his vocal chords, turning into one of his favorite melodies. Sighs and moans in C major.

The man under him was losing his mind at the dance the young man tried to impose. He opened Peter’s shirt and grabbed the brush forgotten on the floor, he wanted to play painter too. He placed the brush on the young man’s skin, leaving a gray trail on his chest and tickling him, making him shiver, stealing sighs with the cold and oily pigment.

He covered each and every pore to finally spread it across his body with his own, firm hands. The boy sighed and tried to look at the disaster left over him.

“So abstract,” little Kandinsky said smiling.

“You aren’t the only one with talent,” Quentin said, and left the flirting behind.

The young man stood up to take off his clothes, since his muse, desperate, tugged at the buttons and zipper. He put his hands over the upper seams of his pants and pulled them down a little, then went back up to tug with his fingers at the elastic of his underwear, snapping back his skin with a provocative sound.

He saw the man’s chest raise as he held his breath. Peter followed with his eyes each and every one of his movements. The young man smiled seductively and finished pulling his clothes down, slowly, through his thighs and legs, kicking them close to the palette he let fall to the floor not so long ago. He did the same with his shirt, taking it off one arm at a time, almost caressing them with the fabric, and he sighed in delight when he saw the man exhale heavily. He left it on top of the pile of clothing and then sat on top of him again.

Peter was going to give himself that day to his lover that day, not just flirt like the other times. There was no doubt, he was in love, and Quentin had waited for so long, still could. But not Peter, he wanted to taste the forbidden fruit.

Quentin cleaned his hand with the shirt the young man had taken off, making sure to wipe all the paint left in them, then placed two fingers inside the boy’s mouth, who licked them obscenely and played with his tongue, turning his partner on even more. When he felt his torture was enough, he took him by the hips, turned him around to put him under him. Rested the boy’s head in the armrest and opened his legs, then caressed his thighs, earning sighs when his damp fingers touched the young man’s hot skin. He positioned himself in that tight space.

Peter looked at him from his position, waiting for him to continue. He wanted more, he wanted to give himself to the man he loved so passionately, he who could recreate perfectly Marina’s “Rythm 0” performance, without fear of being hurt by the man. Because he knew, even if he had a table full of strange objects and a weapon, Quentin would end up caressing him with it, because he’ll never hurt Peter.

He put his wet fingers back in his mouth to lubricate them even more, all under his enthusiastic hazel look. He lowered his hand to the virginal entrance of the young man, starting first with one finger.

Peter shifted uncomfortably when he felt the irruption inside of him. Quentin put the second finger inside of him and the young man whimpered. He was breaking the most sacred relic he’d ever seen, his body was enjoying it like the damn snake he was.

Because he wasn’t free of guilt, he hadn’t been tempted just by the boy, he knew what he was doing and how it would end. He had looked for the young man more than once, made him see everything as a coincidence, but it was never such a thing. He had liked him ever since he saw his smile at the coffee shop.

Moving his fingers inside, he kissed his inner thigh, biting lightly and licking every mark. He turned to the boy, who scratched with one hand the back of the couch, while the other pulled his hair lightly. Quentin introduced a third finger and the young man arched his back under the pressure.

He continued kissing whatever he could reach, he had to wait for the young man to feel comfortable under the intromission, so he took the time to grab the boy’s erection between his hands and gave him his first blowjob while he moved his fingers inside, looking for the young man’s moans. He didn’t wait too long for them, because minutes later Peter was falling to the pleasure being induced to his body.

Quentin moved his torso up to admire what was in front of him. The young man was blushing, biting his lower lip to the point of changing its natural pink, while his body was being touched by the lights pouring through the window, making a contrast of shadows over shiny skin. He looked at his blue stained belly, enjoying the way his hips moved slowly against his fingers.

He was so beautiful, so hot, he could make “Art Nouveau” scream in envy after what Quentin could see. There weren’t more organic shapes than the curves in his body and his symmetry, it was just so fucking sensual, so pleasing to his senses.

He was as gorgeous as Saint Sebastian himself, a beautiful teen who had been pierced by arrows, during the renaissance and baroque periods, because of envy and other petty drama, because he had the power of tempting those who passed by him. He felt jealous at the idea, no one but him could touch Peter, not now, nor ever.

He pulled his fingers out, earning a whine as an answer. He took the boy’s hips, pushed them up and placed a fluffy pillow underneath to give him a little more height.

Quentin grabbed his own erection with both hands and positioned himself at the entrance, then pushed in without effort. He took Peter’s hand and the boy held it tight. Quentin waited for a minute that felt an eternity, then started moving slowly inside of him. He raised one of the boy’s legs to his shoulders and kept on kissing his skin until moans started leaving the young man’s mouth, then picked up the pace.

He shifted again and moved up to find his lips, silencing Peter’s sighs with his mouth and tongue. He then thrust with more force until the slap of their skin became louder.

Their bodies clashed like a bell-clapper, he didn’t know how many times he was in and out, but he was sure it was already past twelve. Their work was better than Saint Peter’s Basilica, where they, too, had met more than once. 

Peter wrapped his legs around the man’s body, forcing him to get deeper inside him, reaching even the last nook inside. His body shook when Peter finally felt it. He moved his hands to Quentin’s back, scratching the canvas, digging his nails in the skin, creating rock art with the blood and marks he left, letting go of his groans in pleasure, asking for more.

“Let me be on top,” the young man asked. The man raised an eyebrow and looked at him, waiting for an explanation. “I want to set my rhythm and make you go crazy with it,” Peter answered, shy, looking at him with eyes bright with lust.

He didn’t have to ask again. The man pulled out, kissing him on the lips once, then they shifted positions until they were back at the beginning.

Taking Peter’s hips, Quentin lowered him slowly, taking care not to break him, his porcelain skin so delicate, and Peter complained as he filled his wet interior more and more. When he was done entering him for the second time he sighed satisfied and Peter melted over the man’s body when he felt him completely inside, just like one of Dalí’s clocks.

His boyfriend tried to calm his groans with caresses and kisses, drinking every moan, he started moving his hips slowly, starting a new rhythm never tried before.

Peter tried not to scream, though he wanted to, so much. Let everyone hear what was happening inside their small room, but it was too dangerous.

He kept on touching whatever was in his reach, staining the old man with his hands and body. He held him in his arms and picked up the intensity, he wanted to hear the song of the boy, playing the most delicious moans he had ever heard.

Their breathing and moaning ended up synchronized, they felt like the cheap clocks of “Perfect Lovers”. They gave in to their primal instincts and just like that their voices lost synchronicity after a while. Peter moaned higher and higher, knowing he was reaching the end, and Beck endured the pleasure of Peter tight around him, because the young man squeezed after every spasm. It went like this until Peter couldn’t hold it anymore and came all over his belly, just like he did with his oil tubes, until nothing was left.

He fell in the man’s arms, who hugged him tight as he came inside him, satisfied.

\---

Peter woke up hugging the man’s oily body and stood up, trying not to wake him up. He picked up his shirt from the floor and placed it on top of him, tracing his hands over his sleeves, not worrying about dirtying them, since it was already coated in blue, and returned to his old place.

Was it the strong smell of linseed oil? The wine? The oils? Or maybe the aphrodisiac emanating from his partner’s pink skin what pushed him to do it?

Cautious, he admired the disaster they had made while they lost all reason and picked up all of his materials thrown around the floor to finish what he had started, but he ended up throwing everything in the garbage.

He didn’t want a picture without feelings, he didn’t want to paint something ideally beautiful or correct, he wanted to embody his love in the oils. Let the world see it at the gallery and feel the passion in his strokes, along with the beauty of his lover, who would be forever embodied in time with the passion of his gestures.

And so, he started again, back to the most primal. Using only primary and secondary colors, now the shade of his eyes wouldn’t be a problem. He’ll just left them closed. No one besides the author was worthy of appreciating that gaze, that color.

With the pleasure in the face of his partner still fresh in his memory, Peter painted again over the canvas, mixing his feelings in the blues, oranges and yellows that ended up giving shape to his body and face in the picture.

He ended up with something worthy of being called expressionism in its most pure state, charged with feelings and uneven strokes that tried to recreate the image in his mind, but unlike the other paintings of its type, this one wouldn’t tell a sad story. It would only be charged with love.

Art didn’t have to be beautiful or complex. It had to be intense, it had to make you think, it had to make you feel, it had to make you question, it had to be a critique of the world, it had to be so many things and yet none. Peter knew that, and that’s why his work wouldn’t be just a mere portrait.

\---

**  
** The man looked embarrassed in front of him, he’d rather be inside the boy’s sketchbooks than outside.

“You signed it with my name,” he said without leaving his impression.

”Well, it’s you, isn’t it? How else was I supposed to name it?”

“When May sees this I’ll be a dead man.”

“Don’t think that, besides I’m an adult now,” the young, hazel eyed man said smiling.

“Parker…”

He laughed out loud, happy to make him angry. The boy next to him didn’t look so young anymore, maybe it was the white shirt and dress pants that made him look older.

“Do you want to go back to the workshop? I’d like to learn how to sculpt in plaster,” he insinuated.

“Stop right there, Michelangelo,” Beck stopped his flirting. “I have to go back to the lab.”

“Fine, I’ll go with you. Do you want to teach me the Laws of Thermodynamics?” He asked suggestively.

Beck looked at him, trying to let go of the words in his mouth, but when he saw May enter the room he turned around and left. Leaving Peter confused, until he heard the voice of his aunt behind him.

Once he was outside, the man heard his name accompanied by an insult, so he decided to go home and prepare the surprise he had for the young man. They had broken now two of the rules, but not all of them, and he wanted to break them together. Beck would tell him that night, when they saw each other again under the candle light and a sparkling wine.

It was his turn to teach him some of his holographic illusions.

Just like Dalí and Gala

Peter couldn’t live without his “muse” Quentin.

-  
  
  


**Annex:**

**Gustav Klimt’s Kiss:**

This painting is considered Gustav Klimt’s masterpiece, most of his older works were criticized for being “pornographic” and “extremely perverted”. This one at least had better acceptance… even if it was bought before being finished by the Austrian Gallery, at a very high price.

**Van Gogh didn’t eat yellow paint:**

This is a rumour. “Yellow is a happy and bright color, that’s why he thought eating it and keeping it inside of him would make him happy.”

**Rythm 0 by Marina Abramović:**

It’s a conceptual art performance. Written in six hours in Morra Studio, Naples. It consisted in inviting the audience to use seventy two objects on the body of the artist. All of the objects could be found in a table and the artist was standing at the center. Marina almost lost her life during the last hours of her performance, the people who hated her cut her body with knives and, among other things, pushed her body to the limit.

**Art Nouveau:**

It’s a movement inspired in nature: vegetation and organic forms interlace as a central motif; there’s no interest for straight lines, but curves and asymmetry are preferred; everything is more sensual, trying to please the senses.

**Saint Sebastian:**

A Praetorian Guard Captain, murdered for converting Romans into Christianism.

This character has infinite adaptations and has been pierced by arrows in every artistic movement that has existed. He’s also known as an icon among gay circles for his beauty.

**Perfect Lovers by Félix González:**

It’s a work composed of two wall clocks hanging next to each other. When they were first hung, their hands were in synchrony, but with time they ended up out of phase and there will inevitably come the time where one of them will stop. However, they will stay together.

The cover was inspired by the book series“Arte Básico”, from editorial Taschen.

The painting itself (as painted by Peter), maybe some of you noticed, it’s the same exact colors in The Scream, an iconic expressionist work.  



End file.
